


Through a Different Lens

by literallyjustanerd



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: 80s AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Dancing, Demon, Family Issues, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay, Gay Male Character, Homosexuality, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Medieval AU, Mutant, Religious overtones, Retro, Running Away, angel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-08-13 17:28:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20178037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literallyjustanerd/pseuds/literallyjustanerd
Summary: A series of one-shots depicting Kurt and Warren's relationship across different periods of history. Medieval travellers, repressed Victorians, Millennials just trying to make it work, and maybe more!





	1. Chapter 1 - The Wicked and the Divine (Medieval)

There is an argument to be made for the effect of good ale and summer nights on loosening the lips of those who really ought to stay quiet. Tall tales grow taller around a campfire and in the company of friends, and before long, stories are being swapped with all the vigour and passion of fragile egos all too eager to try and impress. These are peasant farmers, given a rare and precious few days away from their back-breaking toils in the fields, and the freedom has gone to their heads and turned rumours that would usually be swapped in hushed tones over candlelight into epic sagas to be swooned and astounded over.  
“I swear it to the old gods and the new, there is no way what I saw that night was human. Neither of them,” a voice declares, eyes as wild as the bonfire that crackles within their circle. He is met mostly with laughter, though it would seem he has captured the intrigue of at least a few of his friends. This is not the first time this man has shared a story that strayed far beyond the realms of the normal. He is stocky, a proper workman worn in by years of hard labour, with skin dappled by the sun with grey hairs speckled in his black beard.  
“Supposing you _did _come across a real, proper angel and demon. What in the name of all that’s good would they be doing just passing their time _together_ in the woods, eh?” one sceptic challenges, swinging his cup accusingly at the storyteller.  
“That’s just it! I haven’t even gotten to the strangest part yet.”  
“Oh? A messenger from the gods and a devil with yellow eyes and skin the colour of cornflowers ain’t strange enough for you?”  
“Not after I saw what they were doing.”  
A hush falls over the congregation, part confusion and part apprehension, as the storyteller’s gaze falls upon the flames before him, brow furrowed and mouth ajar as he attempts to put his apparent brush with the divine into words. 

“Well? Get on with it! We don’t have all night to waste on your blasted drunken visions!”  
“The demon had the angel in his arms from behind. I could have sworn for the life of me he was about to sink his wretched teeth into the poor angel’s neck. I almost yelled out, tried to frighten the thing off, but…”  
“But _what? _Out with it, man!”  
“The angel was smiling. _Laughing _at whatever it was that foul creature was saying. Then –I can still see it clear as day in my head—the angel turned in his arms and _kissed _the thing!”  
Murmurs ricochet around the campfire. Some shake their heads, some roll their eyes, and others exchange weak chuckles, trying to dismiss this as just another imagining despite the deathly serious look on the storyteller’s face, the shake in his voice.  
“And what do you suppose this means, then? If you really did see an angel and a demon embraced like lovers, what reason did they have to let you see them?”  
“Aye! If they really were what you say they were—”  
“They _were! _The one of them had great white wings, and the other had—”  
“Yes, yes, we know. But angels and demons can both go completely unseen by man if they choose. So why would they want to let you see them like that? What do you wager the gods are trying to tell us?” 

Silence. The storyteller, at long last, is rendered speechless. The uncertainty is contagious, and for a brief period the only sound that can be heard is the crackling of the fire and the faint call of owls from deep in the wood. It is almost a shock when one young man breaks the quiet, as thin and demure as his voice is. He is not an imposing man, slim and on the short side, red-faced from the cold and the ale and draped in a tattered green cloak.  
“It is a sign of the end times.”  
Heads bob in a flurry of solemn nods, expressions espousing wisdom and certainty far beyond anything that anyone in the circle holds.  
“Angels fraternising with demons… May the gods have mercy on our souls. Something awful must be on its way.”  
“A doomed crop.”  
“The death of the king.”  
“Another war, for certain.”  
Theories are exchanged, and by the time they have exhausted every catastrophe they can conjure from their imaginations, even the most steadfast doubters of the storyteller’s recount have been shaken by the seriousness of their companions, and are now left to question whether there really is something wicked on its way. They sip their ale, stoke the fire, try to move onto less macabre subjects, and though several ears prick to what sounds like light, playful laughter from deep in the trees, not one of them utters a word.

On the other side of the forest, in a small camp set amongst the moss-covered boulders of the hills, an angel tends a struggling campfire of his own. There are flecks of dirt in the feathers of his divine wings, and blisters adorning his holy fingers. He shivers against the cold with all the meekness and desperation of a human, and his heart surges with the most human of emotions when his love appears beside him, his laugh not the least bit demonic at all.  
“They have decided that we are an omen of the end times,” he declares, falling to his knees next to the angel and gratefully accepting the warmth and comfort that his wings provide, a meagre shelter from the bitter night. They are not alone: there are several others peppered across the hillside, some who would be likened to the blessedness of the angel, others who would, like the demon, be shunned and scorned as cursed beings. And yet, if the glow of the moon and the light of the fire were to be snuffed out, any clueless passer-by would find themselves utterly unable to tell their idle chatter, their musings and dramatisations from those of the men across the woods.  
“Is that so?” the angel says with a smirk, allowing his head to rest on his love’s shoulder, his cheek falling against a rough woollen overcoat. He feels the shift in the muscle beneath the cloth as his love nods in affirmation.  
“You should have seen the looks on their poor faces, the fools. They were frightened for their very lives!”  
The angel lets out a low laugh, poking at a stick on their fire with one hand as the other intertwines with that of the body beside him.  
“You take far too much pleasure in their terror,” he says, his voice teasingly accusing.  
“Well. I _am _the devil. Surely that is my right.” his love replies, and presses his lips against the angel’s crown of honey-blond curls. 

“Do you suppose we will need to move on from this place soon? The villagers are growing suspicious. More of them are catching sightings of us by the day.”  
It was true, their anonymity had grown more and more tenuous since their arrival. Those of them whose outward appearances were normal enough to make trips into the village to buy food and other supplies were slowly being picked away, the slip of a hood or the errant curiosity of the townsfolk exposing another oddity that would become yet more tales told with fear and morbid curiosity. Soon, the time would come when they would once again have to tear up the few scant roots they had set down and find another small settlement in which to pass a month or two. Their freedom from the pursuit of mobs of self-righteous farmers relied only on how vigilant they could keep. This strategy leaves them all with a permanent lingering restlessness and exhaustion, and a fear for the day the tactic failed them. The angel considers this possibility, and the vague smile fades from his face. Years now have been spent living in the gaps that the commonfolk allowed, in constant readiness to flee. His love, perceptive as ever, is instantly aware of the change in mood, and shifts so that he and his angel are eye-to-eye. The angel has long admired his love’s eyes, those deep pools of molten gold that seem to be lit by their own internal flame. 

“What is it? What worries you?” the devil asks, and his angel shakes his head as though to dismiss his own worries.  
“It can be easy to grow weary of their fear, as laughable as it usually is. The fact that we cannot steal even a single moment alone in the forest without causing people to fear the end of the world…”  
“I know,” the demon breathes, restless fingers picking at a loose thread in his angel’s sleeve. “If I did not laugh at their misguided judgements of us, I would weep.”  
“Don’t you suppose there is any way we could ever live as they do? Unafraid, unpersecuted, with one home, a _real _home, for all our lives?”  
The warmth of his love’s breath reaches him as he sighs, and, haltingly, shakes his head.  
“Afraid not. The way things have been, the way they have _always _been, I cannot see it as possible. Not for us. Not at all.” The angel can’t be sure –those eyes already shine so much on their own—but he thinks he can hear a catch in his love’s throat, and suspects there may be tears beginning in his eyes. The thought plunges his heart through his chest, fills him with enough anger and grief that his breath is constricted form his lungs. And yet, his lips refuse to move, his limbs are dumb to his commands. Paralysed by his own turmoil, the seconds pass in agony, as though everything they had been outrunning all their lives had hit them with all the force of a crashing wave. 

Presently, mercifully, the devil’s breaths slow, his lips quirking upwards though the expression didn’t quite meet his eyes. His fingers reach out, graze the stubble of his angel’s chin, cupping his cheek and trying to turn his melancholy into something reassuring: he would move the whole world if it meant lifting the burden that sits atop his divine lover’s shoulders, if it brought the light back to his milky blue eyes. There is noise at the centre of their camp, the first few tentative plucks of a lute player testing his instrument and his crowd. The angel and demon turn for a moment to watch as travellers poke their heads from their tents, look up from their pots, their weaving, their sewing, and take note. Some need no further encouragement to abandon their tasks and approach the centre of the camp, in desperate need of something enjoyable to distract from their woes. Others listen from a distance as a panpipe joins the sharp twang of the lute, soon followed by a beating tambourine.

“Perhaps we weren’t meant to live as the rest do,” the devil muses. It sounds like an admission of defeat, though he feels relief at voicing the thought aloud. “Perhaps this is just what is meant for us. Travelling. Finding others like us and giving them a way to live among friends, as imperfect a way to live as it is.”  
“You really think we were _meant _for anything?” the angel replies, his words more question than accusation. “If you are to believe that strongly in fate, then perhaps we ought to also believe that we really are what they call us. Divine and wicked. Angelic and demonic.”  
The music has grown in volume with the confidence of its players, and with it, more campers have picked their way through the clutter of tents and dishes and clothes, and begun singing and dancing, pouring out the little wine they had to go around. Children giggle with all the wild abandon in the world, and it seems that even the cold has retreated somewhat, no longer stinging against the skin and turning wingtips and tailtips numb. The devil grins widely, then dips to press a gentle kiss against his angel’s cheek.  
“We might as well be. Who can say what we really are? I know I’ll not ever understand why we the gods chose to create us so. And if nobody is ever to know what we are, then I suppose we can be whatever we please.”  
He stands, extending an arm to his angel, who takes it with a warm, grateful smile. It has always been nothing short of a miracle to him how his love can manage to turn his spirits on a whim, to simply decide to move on and leave the mourning and rumination for another time. The effect is infectious, as is the rhythm and the chatter coming from the bonfire only yards away from them.  
“Come. What use is there fretting over what they will or will not say?” the demon declares. “The night is young yet. There is wine to be drunk, songs to be sung, and—” he shifts his eyes from the campfire before them to the angel behind him— “there is someone to be loved.”  
Before the angel can think to move for himself, he is pulled by the hand, led by a twinkling laugh and a sly bounce of the hips into the very middle of the fray.

Limbs entwine under the ivory moon, skin is bathed in the intoxicating warmth of the fire, voices are teased out from deep within to join those of their patchwork family. An unspoken agreement has been reached: tonight, they will banish their own fear and live as the villagers they both envied and feared, as though they had nothing in the world to hide, and everything to celebrate. A devilish tail winds around an angel’s waist. Heavenly feathers are brushed over a demon’s back. They twist and spin, shout and sing, feel the blood in their veins and the breath in their lungs, and get drunk on the joy of those around them. And as the one man feels, hears, sees, moves with the other, they share one simple thought: nothing on earth could be more divine –or more human– than this.


	2. Chapter 2 - Promises (1850's Victorian era)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Warren is the repressed, sheltered son of a rich English businessman, and Kurt is a humble travelling circus performer in Germany.  
Letters are exchanged, experiences reflected upon, and shameless fluff ensues.

_15th November 1858_

_My dearest one,  
_

_I must extend my sincerest apologies for my being unable to write for so long. Stealing time enough alone in which to put together a proper letter to you has grown near to impossible, and I fear my days will grow only more taxing in future. My father has begun pushing me to take on more responsibility within the company, and towards this I am both hopeful and mournful. I long for the spare time I once had at the beginning or end of the day, that I used to use to write to you and to read through your past letters and to walk about the town and the parks near to the house and think of all the things I might one day like to do with you. However, I take heart and strength that I might one day have control enough of father’s company that I should be permitted to take up a residence of my own. I have spent many a night far from sleep, instead picturing the two of us in a little place all our own. A townhouse in the city, or perhaps even a house out in the country somewhere, secluded enough that you and I could walk freely around the grounds without a fear or care in the world. We could plant a little garden for you to tend while I am away at work, sit by the fire in the evening and talk and read in each other’s company into the night. Oh, the books that we will accumulate for you, my dear! I should hope to fill shelves to the brim with novels and encyclopaedias and manuals such that you should never hope to finish them in a single lifetime!_

_My deepest apologies again for the brevity of my letter. I can hear my father readying to retire to bed from his study, and I suspect he should want me to do the same very soon. I hope this message finds you well, and that you may take solace in the knowledge that soon we will be together. I cannot promise you the free life you so sorely want –and deserve!– and so I must make my peace in providing you with everything good and proper and comfortable that I am able.  
_ _Know that I love you, and I am regretfully thinking of you a great deal more than I am writing to you._

_All my love and yours forever,_

_Warren_

_P.S. _ _My love to your mother and all the rest. I hope they are doing well and that they thought of losing you in the future is not too dreadful!_

The day has been dreary, and the constant drizzle of rain does nothing at all to alleviate the heavy greyness of London’s city streets. The misery of the outside world feels so thick and pervasive that it has seeped into the minds of those brave enough to leave the warmth of their homes, filling their heads with a mist that dulls their thoughts and weighs down their mood. The cold has sapped away at the natural friendliness and goodwill of the city folk, and many have taken to forgoing the usual tip of the hat or nod of the head in favour of training their gaze steadfastly on the pavement. For this, Warren is glad, as it means he need not hide his tension under the mask of a polite smile, nor engage in any manner of tedious or draining small talk. He is in no state to _chat, _regardless of the weather. Though the dimness of late afternoon is magnified not insignificantly by the oppressive cloud cover, he feels he could still manage to return home before the evening became night and the lamp lighters come to set spark to the lampposts that patrol the streets each evening. It has been yet another seemingly endless day of work, listening to his father explain things he has known for months, having read about them and seen them in practice since the very first day his father decided to begin “training up” his son to relieve him of his place at the head of their estate company.

Warren reaches his family home with little time to spare, as the last few stubborn dregs of daylight begin to fade into the inky darkness of a London evening, and the cracking of thunder in the distance gives the promise of another stormy night. He enters with a brief greeting and takes a small supper in place of a meal –much to his mother’s worry— before retiring to his room as quickly as was polite. It is all he can do to hold himself together until the moment the door closes and he collapses into the chair by his bed. He moves like a man possessed, tugging furiously at his frock coat and loosening the tie around his neck, breath catching in his throat with desperation. Since the moment he dressed that morning, he has thought of nothing but this moment, struggled on minute by minute as a slave to the cruel slowness of the clock. The anxiety of his condition being noticed does nothing to ease the tension in his muscles throughout the day, or the myriad cramps and spasms he experiences at such frequent intervals and always at the most inopportune of moments. He strips away his shirt, tossing it carelessly aside, and at last reaches the harness underneath, fingers stumbling in their eagerness, grabbing at the buckles running from his shoulder down his back and legs. One by one they are loosed, freeing the snowy white wings from their cage with a relief that feels nothing short of heavenly.

Consumed by this sudden freedom, by the feeling movement and of blood in his veins once more, he is suddenly weak at the knees, and allows himself to slump back into his desk chair. Warren lets his eyes fall shut and revels for a moment in this, the only time in his day that he finds any sort of freedom or gratification. So many years he has lived like this, and yet he has never managed to acclimate to this sordid routine. He had hoped as a boy that over the years, it might get easier to manage. The memory of that awful, confusing time is still as fresh in his mind as though it had been only yesterday, a scar that only grew deeper and darker with time. It had begun only weeks after his twelfth birthday, when he had woken in the dead of night to an unbearable itching on his back. For hours he writhed and thrashed in bed trying to scratch at it, fingers falling short no matter how they strained. The next morning, desperate and out of sorts from the itch, his mother had sent for the doctor, who inspected the rash on Warren’s back and declared it a passing ailment, to be treated with ointment and proper bandaging. For a week, Warren begged for the bandages to be removed so someone could scratch the terrible itch, and for a week he was denied, even when he insisted that the sensation was getting worse, growing into a painful, centralised tingling, then a sharpness, and finally an incredible pressure that, while not strictly comfortable, felt strangely relieving.

After this, though, there is only one memory that overtakes Warren’s mind, his every sense: the expressions on his parents’ faces when at the end of the week, his bandages were finally removed. The way his mother’s face had contorted with shock and disgust, and his father’s eyes had been instantly set ablaze with abhorrence. With scarcely the conviction to ask them what was wrong, Warren caught his reflection in the living room mirror, breath stolen from his lungs at the sight of the bones protruding from his back. Small, fine bones, emerging through the skin at the base of his shoulder blades like saplings from the soil. Each one was lined with a thin layer of muscle— red, stringy ligaments rooting them to Warren’s back, and each was lined with an array of spines, thin and translucent like fish bones. He dimly recalls the sound of both his parents shrieking and sobbing, arguing over whether to call the doctor or the priest, but their panic had felt distant, their voices vague and echoing. Instead, he had remained engrossed in his own reflection, and presently, when he had tried tensing the muscles on his back and seen the little appendages twitch in response, and was at once horrified and fascinated with himself.

The next months aren’t nearly as clear in his memory. The bones on his back had continued to grow, and the spines that line them soon developed into feathers. By then, the itching had subsided, and all he had felt as they grew was a gentle intermittent pressure at his shoulder blades. Though there was plenty of pain still to come. His parents had tried to pluck the feathers, to smother the wings under tight bandages, to bind them up at the bases in the hopes that cutting off the blood supply might make them drop off like a lamb’s tail, but nothing had been successful at anything more than causing Warren immense discomfort. He was home-schooled during this time, with all his tutors sworn to secrecy lest they see anything untoward in their young charge. By the time Warren was sixteen, his wings were fully grown, and though he wished for nothing more than a normal life, and despaired over what it would mean for the rest of his life, late at night, alone in his room with his own thoughts, he could not but admire their brilliant white plumage, and wonder at what it would be like to put them to their intended use. One month later, his father had presented him with his proposed solution—the harness that had instantly become the bane of Warren’s existence. Warren Worthington III had returned to society the next week, his parents not only expecting but demanding that their son continue to uphold the charade that he was nothing less than their perfectly human son, next in line to inherit the family business. Nothing less than a dashing young man who would soon be prime for courting and marriage. Nothing less than a Worthington.

As Warren ponders this, the weariness of the day hits him anew, taking advantage of his dropped guard and newfound comfort, and when he stands and takes himself over to his bed, it is with a heavy head and leaden feet. He makes some attempt to read before resigning himself to sleep, but soon finds himself repeating the same sentence again and again, too fatigued from the day to do anything but snuff out the lamp and hide away under the sheets, his thoughts meandering back and forth between the hideous notion of tomorrow and the hope of some date far in the future, on which he could be reunited with and reminded of his reason for persevering as he had. The last thing he sees in his mind’s eye before he is lost to sleep entirely is a set of warm yellow eyes, and a mischievous smile set amongst a sharp jaw of midnight blue that melts away his cares and leaves him with a lasting resolve to persevere through another day, and a hundred more after that. At least until such a time as he can fall asleep to that smile every night.

_12th December 1858_

_My Angel,_

_ Please do not feel badly for being unable to write. I of course understand how busy you must be, and all I can tell you is that I pray you do not treat yourself too harshly. Be gentle, love—the last thing on Earth I wish is for you to be in ill health or spirits when I come to see you. I have spoken at length to the trainyard worker I told you of in my last letter, and he has assured me that when I am ready to make the journey to you, he will allow me to stow away among the cargo crates and ensure I remain unseen. I have been dreaming every day of making that journey, of seeing your face, of the life we will build together. I do so love the thought of a home in the English countryside. It seems so idyllic, like an illustration from a children’s book. Perhaps we would even be left so alone and find such privacy in our seclusion that you might at last put your wings to good use? I know I say it too often, but I really cannot but despair that you have never had the chance to enjoy them as God clearly meant for them to be enjoyed. I know it would bring you such happiness, and because of that it would do the same for me. _

_ Mother is well. She asks after you often. She worries that you are too isolated all the way over there, and begs me to ask if you would consider leaving England and joining us here instead. I try to tell her as gently as I can that as much as you enjoyed your short time with us, this life does not suit you as it suits some. Indeed, I hope you take no offense, but I have to laugh at the thought of you living amongst us, sleeping in hammocks with nothing but circus tents for shelter! Hard as I try, I can only see you in your coat and top hat. Do not mistake me, love: I adore that coat and hat. I do not mind telling you at all how dashing and gentlemanly they make you appear, especially when I first set eyes on you and was so unaccustomed to seeing people in such dress. Perhaps when I am over there, I will have a suit made for myself in the same fashion, if for nothing than just to try it out._

_ All my love to you, and all my strength. Lord knows you need it more than I. My heart aches to think of how isolated you must feel, and the pain you must face every day from that wretched harness. One day I will burn the blasted thing, I swear it to you._

_Thinking of you always,_

_Kurt_

_P.S. If it is not too much to ask, would you mind sending more of the tea that came with your last letter? Hard as I try, I can never find a blend here that measures up to it, and it would seem everyone else here agrees, as it all disappeared almost overnight!_

Late night, and another happy crowd streams from the big top, laughing and grinning, some still stunned from the daring feats they have just been presented with. Kurt watches from the shadows, a contented smile on his face, a sense of satisfaction falling over him that only comes from knowing they have put on another good show. And yet, when his eyes alight on a little girl looking intently in his direction, he shrinks back further into the darkness, the feeling twisting into anxiety until the girl heeds her parents’ calls and runs off to join them. Hardly the closest call he has ever had, and yet it instantly puts a damper on his mood, and brings him back down to reality. The reality in which he is more than just a humble travelling circus performer whose acrobatic skills entertained the inhabitants of small villages in the German countryside. The reality where, outside of the circus tent, his safety hinges on remaining unseen, lest he be pursued once again by an angry and terrified mob of villagers with pitchforks and torches blazing. It isn’t a comforting reality, but he has come to understand it, knows its rules and how to tread lightly so as not to break them. As the last few stragglers filter out of the big top, he retreats further into the safety of the circus grounds, eager for a hot meal and a good night’s sleep.

Margali is already at work by the campfire, stirring a large pot of stew. She stops now and then to scold the children whose rough-and-tumble games stray too close to the fire, and though they start at her stern voice and quickly move their games away, there is a smile on her face as she shakes her head and returns to her cooking. There is such a strong maternal instinct in everything she does, a warm and matronly air about her that makes anyone in her presence feel at once comforted and compelled to behave themselves. Kurt can’t help the smile that comes to his lips as he considers this—after all, it is because of her, and because of this motherly instinct that he has a home amongst the circus folk at all.

The story has been told to him from his earliest days, its beats and details and the little quirks with which Margali tells it etched into his mind like a carved stone. Though each retelling brought with it certain differences, marked changes in its tone as Kurt grew older in years and wiser to the world’s many harsher parts. As a young boy, he’d listened in wonder as his mother explained how she’d found him late one Autumn eve, following the sounds of a crying babe deep into the woods until she chanced upon a bundle of tattered blankets at the foot of a tree. Naturally, being so young, Kurt had made the assumption that this was how all children came to their parents. In his mind, the only difference of his story from that of the children around him was that he had been a “special” discovery, his fine blue fur, amber-gold eyes and tail all a beautiful rarity in the world. This was how he had lived, blissfully sheltered and believing himself to be that special breed of same-but-different, never treated by his circus-mates with any less affection or care than the other children he’d grown up with, a wonderful, vibrant raggle taggle family in which all children and all parents were shared and loved.

But, of course, he couldn’t remain so insulated from the wider world for long, and he soon learned the hard, unflinching truth when one day he wandered just slightly too far from their campsite and found himself face to face with a group of hunters in the woods. Though only a child of eight, they recoiled at the sight of him, guns swung in his direction but too petrified to shoot. The words they used were all ones Kurt had heard before; monster, devil, creature, imp; but never outside of the realms of fiction, of the tales the grownups told around the fire to frighten the children into behaving.  
“Oh, God, look at its eyes!”  
“Its eyes? Look at its _tail!”  
_“What _is _it? It’s disgusting!”  
They stood in scorn and fear in front of a child petrified by fear. A child staring down the barrel of a gun, wide-eyed and quivering, as hot, silent tears filled his eyes. Soon, though it felt like an eternity, the men had lost their resolve and run, though they each shouted promises to the others of returning that night with a larger hunting party. Returning to “kill the beast.”

Margali had found him later on. He didn’t know how much later. Time had faded into the background, replaced with a stifling, strangling shame for something he didn’t know he’d done wrong. He had curled himself into a ball beneath an old pine tree, cried into his hands until his mother sat by his side and managed to piece together the story from her son’s broken sobs. And once she was done drying his eyes, holding him to her chest and promising him she would never let anyone harm him, he’d been given the next layer of his story _All people are born different, _she’d told him. But sometimes, people are born more different than others, different in ways that other people don’t understand, ways that confuse and upset them. _They forget that they were born different themselves_, she said sagely, smiling distantly into the wide, vulnerable eyes beneath her. When Kurt had asked if this was why he’d been left in the forest as a baby, the smile had faded, and she’d simply nodded her head. Then, after a moment of silence, she’d said,  
_“But I am glad they left you for me to find. They –whoever they were– clearly did not deserve a child as special as you.”  
_And just like magic, everything was okay. Not fantastic, and certainly still much different, much more cautious than it had been before, but okay nonetheless.

Over the passing years, as Kurt grew and learned and found his little niche in the world, he had tried his best to keep to his mother’s words. Though his optimism often faltered, especially since he’d never managed to find another person who was quite as _different _in the way he was. Until one night in February, when he’d met Warren Worthington III. His family was vacationing in Germany and visiting with an old business associate of his father’s, and upon hearing that there was a circus in town for one night only, his mother had hurried them all out to catch the show. The performance had seemed to Kurt to be just another routine, without a hint of the lifechanging events that were about to unfold. After the fact, however, he had been told (and often liked to reflect upon, with an inevitable flush to his cheeks every time) that the moment he had taken to the ring, appeared upon the trapeze podium and taken his bow, Warren’s heart had stuttered in its rhythm like a horse bucking its rider, suddenly in awe of the man before him. He’d barely taken in the acrobatic feats that the so-called _Incredible Nightcrawler_ had performed, too enamoured with the glow of his eyes, the sleekness of his movements from tip to tail –_tail!_ – and when at the end of his performance he’d performed his greatest wonder and vanished from the trapeze to appear instantly on the ground in the centre of the ring, Warren had told him that he knew from that very moment he had to meet this man.

Though they had only been able to steal a few minutes together that night, that was all Kurt needed for his apprehension at this strange, rich English gentleman to turn to fascination, and then quickly to infatuation. It wasn’t until the next day, when Warren had snuck away from his parents to find Kurt once more, that Warren revealed his wings and sealed away Kurt’s aching heart as his own. Letters were exchanged, plans made, and fantasies dreamed up before Kurt knew what had come over him. Their time together was brief—Warren had returned to England only two days after meeting him. Though that didn’t stop Kurt from stealing one small, chaste kiss as they made their farewells. Gentle and tentative –he distinctly remembers not wanting to leave this poor stuffy upperclassman _too _out of sorts– he had pressed his lips against Warren’s cheek, lingering for a short, precious moment before drawing back with a wide grin, a grin that grew wider still as Warren’s cheeks flushed bright crimson red, eyes seemingly glazed over and fighting down a small, radiant smile in his fluster. A later letter had confessed that his mother had become convinced that Warren had gotten sick when he returned to their rooms with such a flush on his face, looking so dazed and out of sorts.

It is these thoughts, this muddle of good and bad and hopeful and doubting, that Kurt eventually drifts to sleep with, full with a good meal and with the singing and laughing of his family outside his trailer as his lullaby.

_25th April 1860_

_Dear mother and father,_

_My best wishes to you both. Thank heavens the weather has finally picked up; I feared that winter would never end. Your last letter has been received and well. I am in good spirits, and you really need not fear that I am lonely. Quite the opposite, in fact—there really must be something divine in this country air, for I find myself in a brighter mood with every passing day. As for your request that I return to London in the coming weeks, I trust you’ll excuse my decline. I still feel that I yet lack the strength for such a long journey, and as such I believe it best that I remain here at least for the remainder of the week. I am seen to well by my newfound friends in the village, so there is no reason to worry over my condition. You’ll give my apologies to Ms Grey and Ms Darkholme for being unable to make their acquaintance, although I am sure they have no shortage of other suitors than I to entertain, and so perhaps they should be happy for the relief._

_All my love,_

_Warren_

The kettle begins to squeal, drawing Warren out of his peaceful reverie. His movements are measured as he pours out the two cups of tea, careful to fill one almost to the brim: Kurt took his tea with just the slightest splash of milk, good and strong. Weak sunlight filters through the kitchen windows, still pale and milky as it tries to cut through the remnants of the early morning rain. Droplets collect on the rose bushes that line the cottage’s exterior, little glittering jewels among the leaves and buds. One or two of the red and white buds have begun to open, Warren notes, delighting in how proud Kurt will be to hear that all his efforts have paid off. His wings shudder and rearrange themselves against his back, their tips still unused to the dawn chill outside of bed. The tea stirred –two sugars for Kurt, none for himself– he brings the tray down the dim hallway and into the bedroom. His beloved is still fast asleep, and the sight of him sprawled out on the bed, all tangled among the quilts and blankets, brings a contented sigh to Warren’s lips. When the curtains are drawn back, Kurt’s brow wrinkles, eyelids fluttering against the sudden light until he comes to and rubs at his eyes.  
“You really do sleep much too late,” Warren chastises, sitting himself down on the edge of the bed and leaning down to place a kiss on the man’s forehead. “A hopeless layabout, you are.”  
“Perhaps you rise too early,” Kurt chuckles, eyes still closed until he feels Warren’s warmth leave him. Warren retrieves the tray from the nightstand and joins Kurt in bed once more, the tray nestled between them. 

It is nearing midday on an early spring morning. The day is cool, but there is a pleasant warmth to the sun when caught at the right angle. Birds are at work in their nests, their songs alighting on the gentle breeze, and the rolling hillsides are dotted with rabbits foraging amongst the dewy grass. Atop one of these hills, just across the way from a cosy little countryside cottage, a distant figure lies atop a picnic blanket. There is a wistful smile in his eyes as he gazes up at the soft blue sky above him, where another figure cuts lazy circles in the air, wings spread wide in their exuberant flight. For a perfect eternity they remain this way, until the man touches down to earth once more, laying down to join the other with arms intertwined and fingers laced together. No words are spoken, and no words are needed. They are content with the warmth of the sun and of their mingling breaths, the gentle sounds of spring, and the promise of a thousand more perfect days on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I legitimately have no excuse for how this turned out as long as it did... Let me know if you like the longer chapters or if you prefer the shorter ones, I'm happy to take on advice either way!  
Also, continuing the tradition of me listening to one song over and over while I write parts of my fanfictions because they perfectly fit the atmosphere I'm trying to create, this chapter was Perfect Day by Miriam Stockley.  
Hope you enjoyed, thanks for your support :)


	3. Chapter 3 - 4:51am (80s, part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Warren wears leather, gets drunk, and pours a gas can of angst over his head while thinking about various parts of his life.

11:42pm, September 1986

“Double rum and coke.”  
The bartender’s brow furrows, leaning across the bar with her ear tilted towards Warren.  
“_Rum and coke. Double,” _Warren says again, voice raised louder against the pounding music. She nods her understanding and pulls out a fresh glass, as Warren slumps on his elbows against the bartop, tugging at the back of his leather jacket until it once again sits comfortably against the bases of his wings. Alone and six drinks passed the point of sober, he is eager to fill himself with as much liquid distraction as possible. The goal is to stuff his mind to the brim with alcohol and nicotine and neon lights and electronic music, leaving no room for any of the many anxieties and frustrations that nag at the edge of his thoughts. No room for _him,_ no room for _them, _or for _that. _Just drinking and dancing and forgetting. And this place, this hole in the wall set deep in lower Manhattan, is the perfect place for forgetting. The kind of place where you catch glimpses of people you know; friends, colleagues, old high school classmates; only for both of you to immediately avert your gaze and pretend neither saw a thing. The kind of place that the ostensibly-closeted mutant son of an affluent businessman should by no means be spending his Tuesday night.

The drink is poured, and Warren downs it all at once, the plastic glass skittering across the counter as he discards it. Gathering his strength, he pushes off from the harbour of the bar to venture into the ocean before him. A thundering beat penetrates his ears, bright strobing lights whirl in and out of his vision, and he dissolves into the crowd, allowing its push and pull to swallow him whole like a relentless tide. The crowd, faceless and amorphous, is eager to welcome him home. An arm collides with his shoulder, a back presses persistently into the feathers of his wing, the pressure both comforting and exhilarating. The pounding of the drums is all-consuming, and Warren is not moving so much as he is being moved by it, hanging off its every ebb and flow and gladly submitting himself to its power. Its thrall is so compelling that Warren’s very heartbeat has become entwined with it, so that when the tune finally fades out, the brief transition between songs stops his heart altogether, until a different rhythm kicks up and the ritual begins again.

2:09am  
Years pass in seconds, and as though being pulled from a dream, Warren is ushered out of the club along with the crowd that had become his home, thrust unwilling into the cold night air of the real world. Staggering on his feet, he drags himself to the curb, shaking his wings out in the newfound space. The people who surround him laugh, and the sound seems to echo in Warren’s ears as they pass him, sparing no glance for the drunken mutant they had just been so intimately acquainted with. The stench of cigarette smoke is somehow just as strong on the sidewalk as it had been inside and Warren breathes it deeply before sticking out a hand to try and hail the cabs circling, like vultures waiting to pick off the faded partygoers. Out here, there is more room to think, and though he tries to fight them off, Warren’s thoughts begin to trickle back in, muddled and barely coherent in his stupor. 

Months had passed since that day, yet Warren still feels the rush of meeting him as though it had been that very morning. He’d only just settled into the house that Xavier built, barely begun to let down his guard to the other mutants there, the ones that called themselves the X-Men. He’d been told to expect new teammates to appear sporadically as the Professor rounded them up and offered them positions, so he wasn’t surprised when Jean had told him one morning that there was one such newcomer waiting to be introduced in the living room. No, that wasn’t surprising at all. But when he dragged himself and his morning coffee into the lounge, when his eyes had alighted on that bright, innocent smile and downright _bubbly _“guten tag,” he felt like he’d been knocked upside the head. By now he was good at keeping his cool whenever he felt the tug of attraction stirring up his insides. He’d learned to stay composed years ago, for the sake of self-preservation more than anything. But this, oh _god,_ this was something else entirely.

In reality, it had taken weeks for the feelings to reach their peak, to grow to the point that Warren’s stomach knotted whenever Kurt laughed at one of his jokes and he felt like crying whenever Kurt smiled his perfect, blameless smile. But in the twisted concoction of his memories, it felt as though he’d been that hopelessly, pitifully smitten since the very first moment. And it hadn’t gone away, no matter how much Warren had scolded himself. Again and again he’d broken through the terrifying high that Kurt’s company gave him to remind himself that he was always one tiny misjudgement away from a one-way ticket to shame and alienation, the last thing he wanted after finally finding a group who he _knew _accepted at least one of the less media-friendly components of his identity. He still felt it, though. He still dreamt.

2:31am  
The cab driver does not try to make conversation when Warren collapses onto the faded leather seat. For this, Warren is both relieved and unnerved. The drone of the easy listening radio station in the front seat is hardly enough to keep his own thoughts at bay, and he turns his gaze out the window, streetlights passing in a steady rhythm, bathing Warren in a sickly glow that turns his wings from white to yellow-gold and back each moment. He steals a glance of the cab driver— older, moustachioed, eyes dark and intense. As slow and muddled as his thoughts have become, Warren still catches notice of how hard the man is gripping the steering wheel, how his mouth seems to quirk as though in deep conversation with himself. _It’s because of the wings. That’s why he isn’t speaking to you._ The voice snarls from deep within Warren’s subconscious, punching him in the gut. _Why would he speak to a mutant? Why would he speak to a mutant he picked up from a gay bar? You’re lucky he even took your ride at all. _

His breath hisses as he sucks it in through his teeth. He knows this voice well. It is the ball and chain that keeps him tethered to the ground, prevents him from ever straying too far into the foolish fantasy that he might someday be able to live without shame, without guilt. It first arose shortly after his wings began growing, and reached its loudest on the day before he took up a room at the Xavier mansion.

“Didn’t you think for even a _moment_ about how this affects _my _reputation?! You can’t just _do _these things, Warren!”  
That night, the night he’d finally given up on the tenuous, volatile relationship he had with his father, was cold. The rain pounded outside, so the volume of the TV was raised high, forcing their voices higher still to be heard above it. The news story before them showed aerial shots of the city from earlier in the day: another mutant rights protest, this one surrounding the very research facility that Warren’s father owned and operated.  
“I was just talking to them, okay? They’re mutants, too. They know what it’s like, they say they can help me to—”  
“_Help _you? They think _they_ can help you? There _is _help for you, Warren! We _tried _to help you, we showed you a _cure_, and you refused us!”  
“Maybe I don’t _need_ to be cured!” he had blurted, eyes wide, angry and fearful.  
“Of course you do! Look at yourself, look at those godforsaken wings! None of this is natural.”  
“Then why did it happen?”  
Warren’s father made a predatory noise, a wolfish growl. His mother, sat on the other end of the sofa, had her eyes in her lap, stiff and unmoving as though she believed she could make herself invisible just by keeping still and silent.  
“I’ll make this simple for you, _boy,” _his father spat. “Only because you’re too thick-headed to know what’s good for you. Either you get your head on straight and get yourself _fixed,_ or you get your shit and get out of this house. And don’t even _think_ about coming back.”

Warren had moved out the next day, taken everything he could fit into the few suitcases he could carry. As unstable as his relationship with his parents had been since his mutation had manifested, he’d never expected to have to take up the Professor’s offer of a room at the school. Nor had he expected to enjoy being surrounded by others with their own weird and wonderful powers and abilities like his. As comforting as it was, though, it did little to dull the voice. It still visited him: at night, when he had nothing else to distract him from his darkest thoughts. Out on the street, when mothers pulled their children closer and sped up to walk past him on the sidewalk. When he caught himself daydreaming about running his hand through thick, black hair, smiling down into bright golden eyes. _Different_, it sneered. _Different and wrong._ _Different and broken. Different and a mistake._

3:15am  
Warren is jostled from his reverie as the cab pulls off the road and onto the gravel driveway of the mansion. He blinks hard, though it does nothing to clear his head or focus his eyes. He digs through the pocket of his too-tight jeans and fishes out his wallet, thrusting a fistful of notes gracelessly toward the driver. As the man counts out his change, Warren takes note of the beads of water gathering on the windshield, glowing golden in the headlights. He doesn’t remember when it had started raining, but he does welcome the feeling of the fine mist against his face as he steps out of the cab. Far from the bustle and life of the inner city, the mansion is a silent, looming black mountain before him. The crunching of gravel beneath his feet feels impolite, like speaking in a movie theatre or laughing too loud in a restaurant. And yet, as he reaches the large oak doors, his eyes catch on a hint of light, past the entryway and into the living room beside the kitchen. Someone is up, someone is awake, there is life in this old house at such a late, deadened hour. And, with both a swelling and a sinking in his chest as he manages his key in the lock, he thinks he knows just who it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely reader! I know this is a reasonably short chapter, but I really just wanted to get something out there to get some feedback on it. I've been having a tough time lately and felt the need to publish something, so here is part one of two, the second to come soon.  
In the meantime, read, enjoy, and please feel free to give me any and all feedback that comes to mind! It is so immeasurably fantastic to hear what people think of what I have to share.  
Thank you all so much, have a wonderful day!


	4. Chapter 3 - 4:51am (80s, part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warren arrives home and makes an attempt at conversation, and we see a little more of Kurt's side of the story

3:15am (cont)  
The creak of the door opening seems a deafening intrusion on the otherwise silent night, and Warren winces as he slips through the crack into the mansion. Quietly and slowly as possible, he re-latches the door behind him, carefully measuring his footfalls to the end of the entryway. An entire argument takes place in Warren’s mind in the few seconds this takes. On the one hand, he can go to bed. The safe option, the sensible one. He is still drunk; he can feel it in the slight numbness of his fingers and wingtips, and in the slowed passing of his thoughts. Sitting with Kurt in his state carried with it all manner of risks, ranging from mild social faux pas to a permanent and devastating slip of the tongue. Not to mention there was the very real possibility that Kurt may not want to be disturbed at all. Very few people sitting alone in living rooms after three in the morning were actively looking for conversation. And yet. And yet, and yet, and yet. Even as all of these very reasonable considerations pass through Warren’s head, he knows that the promise of time spent with Kurt is too much to resist. He is already walking towards the living room, already trying to hush the voice as it seethes and rages about how wrong this is all about to go.

Kurt had been so lost in the book he’d been reading, so engrossed in its pages and in the little pocket of solitude the night had created that the squeal of the old oak door had nearly frightened him out of his skin. His heart was still hammering in his chest even as he reminded himself that Warren had gone out earlier that evening. Craning his neck, he can see Warren swaying slightly on his feet, and immediately knows just what kind of night he has had. His path is halting, as though he is at war with himself, one half determined to soldier on while the other demands a retreat. The hesitant steps grow closer, and soon Warren has entered the room, giving Kurt a vague nod.  
“Up late,” he manages. Warren had meant it to sound nonchalant, though it had come out as little more than a fuzzy, disjointed mumble. Kurt holds up his book and gives a smile like watered-down coffee.  
“Couldn’t put it down.” 

His eyes slide searchingly over Warren as he lowers himself onto armchair opposite Kurt. Mixed signals had become the only consistency for Warren since they’d both come to be part of this strange new family. The friendly jokes melded with the occasional standoffish behaviour, without any indicator of which it would be on any given day. Sometimes he would even switch mid-conversation, leaving Kurt to wonder what word, what question it had been that had nudged Warren just a little too far over the edge. As many times as this happened, though, as many interactions left Kurt feeling as though something was being held back or kept unsaid, Warren always managed to appear again. He could not be deterred for long, something that Kurt had grown to find comfort in. He was fascinating company, this Angel, and despite the lack of predictability in what he’d seen so far, he somehow found himself certain that if all roadblocks were removed, he would only enjoy his presence all the more. 

Perhaps it is this sentiment that leads Kurt to inch the man towards a conversation. Nonetheless, he is unsurprised to find himself laying down most of the groundwork himself. He asks questions that go unanswered, or that are given one-word responses, and so he fills the gaps, sharing his own answers instead. He notices the twitches in Warren’s lips when he gives these dead-end replies, the filling of his lungs with too much air for so few words. There is more lying under the surface, a great flowing lake under this layer of ice, he is sure. And so he does not bore of the stilted chatter they share, rather he grows more fascinated by the moment, wondering if perhaps tonight, with enough liquor to cushion the blow, Warren may just take the plunge and let go. 

3:49am  
For many minutes, Warren feels both spoiled and selfish as this perfect man sits before him, sharing so many details of his own life, showering Warren with answered questions and stories of his past. Each one is a new brushstroke in the masterpiece Warren has in his head, the cobbled-together image of Kurt’s life born from a plethora of interactions over months, each one only brightening the picture, adding another glowing highlight. He really could sit and listen to the man talk for hours more, but the guilt of being so closed off begins to wear him down. The buzz of alcohol has reduced somewhat as the minutes tick by, little by little coming back down to earth. He begins slowly, sharing only benign, mundane details. The conversation shifts to cinema, so he divulges his favourite movie, and how he'd been obsessed with the soundtrack for a year afterwards. This in turn makes it far easier to confess that this record had been one of his only comforts during his many conflicts with his parents growing up. Before he even realises it, he is telling Kurt just what had been the cause of so many of those rows.

“They really wanted you to cut them off?” Kurt is aghast, eyes widened and brow creased in alarm. Warren nods, a kind of bitter half-smile on his face. For an uncomfortably long moment, the question hangs in the air between them, thickening it, turning Warren’s thoughts sluggish as he tries to formulate a reply. Hard as he tries, Kurt’s gaze locked on his keeps draining his attention away from the conversation.  
“I almost wanted to go through with it sometimes,” he finally mutters. “Just to make them happy.”  
“That’s awful, Warren. I’m so sorry they made you feel like that.” Warren shrugs, sighs, shuffles and reshuffles his wings against his back.  
“I was thirteen. I just wanted whatever it would take to make me normal.”  
The word strikes an off chord, and the second it leaves Warren’s lips he feels it like a jarring shock through his whole body. “I mean, I know we’re all _normal,_ I know that’s the whole point of what we’re—”  
“It’s okay,” Kurt says softly. He doesn’t smile, but the tenderness in his eyes is all the comfort Warren needs, despite how it instantly dries up the words in his throat. “You’re right. We _deserve_ to be normal. We’ve done nothing to make ourselves anything less. But we’re _not_ normal. Not in the real world. Not in the ways it matters.”

The first time he’d ever kissed a boy, Warren had felt two things at once. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He’d felt _everything_ at once: joy, grief, pride, shame, terror, exhilaration. But there were two feelings that had eclipsed them all: he’d felt right and wrong all at once. Both so completely that they filled his entire being, both somehow occupying the same space. He was fourteen, sitting on the brick wall at the far end of the school grounds, shielded from the world by a curtain of willow branches. The boy sitting beside him, the one whose hand had been resting awkwardly atop Warren’s for ten minutes before Warren had found to courage to kiss him, had been his one saving grace at the strict, proper boys’ boarding school his parents had sent him off to. His name was Michael, and he had dark, intense eyes and a fierce wit. He and Warren shared an English class, paired together for a poetry assignment, and Warren had been instantly taken by the contrast between the boy’s harsh, defensive nature and the gentle, thoughtful beauty of his writing. They’d begun spending time together outside of classes, quickly getting lost in their own world, taking one tentative step forward and two guilty steps back, until today, when they’d both made the sudden and unexpected leap into the unknown.

Warren distinctly remembered trying consciously to push his thoughts and fears from his mind, to think about the kiss that was actually happening and not the million horrors it could cause after it had ended. For the first moment or two, he’d managed it easily. The thrill, the giddiness and impossible yearning had easily surpassed any other thought in his mind. All too soon, however, reality had set in. The endless sickening possibilities took hold, and his stomach began to turn. When the kiss had ended, when he’d opened his eyes to meet Michael’s once more, he knew instantly that he was feeling the exact same cocktail of strange, wonderful, sickening new emotions. Wind meandered through the branches around them, bringing with it the sounds of a distant soccer game from the world and the classmates they’d left behind. Warren opened his mouth to speak. Michael cut him off, mumbling something about returning to his dorm. Those were the last words Michael ever said to him. For some days after, Warren would make weak, mumbled attempts to start a conversation, all of which were answered only with silence, sometimes paired with a poisonous look, like it was Warren’s fault for causing the confusion and shame they both felt. All of which left Warren with the same breathtaking pain of abandonment as he’d felt watching the boy jump down from the brick wall to walk out of their world and back into everyone else’s.

4:13am  
Kurt breathes deeply in, and it seems to shake Warren from whatever dream had taken him over this time. He almost smiles at him, but instead, he begins revisiting a memory of his own, describing his first arrival in America, and all the blessings and curses it brought. He can tell Warren is listening intently as he tells of his first direct exposures to American media. It hadn’t been an easy transition, from the relatively disconnected life of a circus performer to the complete media saturation of New York. He’d felt like he was drowning—in brands, in news reports, in arguments about oppression and protection and what kind of person was and wasn’t allowed to exist without shame. It had its perks, of course: Kurt had always adored films, especially the old swashbuckling adventures he’d watched growing up, and the fact that he could now go to the movies every weekend was no small joy to him. But he had to admit, it didn’t all measure up to his expectations.

“I always expected it to be better for mutants here,” he says, his voice a sigh, hands gripping his book tightly, bending it slightly back and forth. “America was this great, fantastic place where everyone was free.”  
“Yeah, that’s a load of bullshit,” Warren affirms, and Kurt nods his agreement.  
“It’s better in some ways. I don’t get chased down by people with torches who think I’m a demon,” he offers, laughing meekly. The joke falls flat. “But really, I’ve just traded that for hearing people argue about putting me and my friends on some kind of government registry. Or mutilating us until we’re the same as everyone else.”  
“Same thoughts, different threats.”  
Silence falls as the statement sinks into both men’s minds. Kurt wants desperately to end the conversation on a more positive note: he hates seeing the dullness in Warren’s eyes whenever he loses himself to his own pessimism. His mind rifles through options, jokes, reassuring statements, offerings of comfort, but nothing he can come up with seems appropriate. He loses the battle with time as Warren stands up, excusing himself to bed. There is a dam in Kurt’s throat as Warren gives his half-hearted ‘goodnight,’ and instead of saying all he wants to say, Kurt can only mumble ‘night,’ back. He waits until Warren has disappeared from sight, up the grand, ornate stairs to the bedrooms on the second floor, before teleporting himself into his own room, feeling empty, restless and unsatisfied.

4:38am  
The late hour brings Kurt no rest. His head is stuffed with cotton balls, overfilled and stifling, and each thought must be wrestled tediously out from the very depths of the impacted mess. As deeply as he tries to breathe, the air brings him no relief, and no amount of pacing in his lamplit room can resolve the disagreement he is having with himself. Surely, it is too late by now. Warren would probably already be fast asleep. Yellow eyes nervously eye the clock on the nightstand. _Maybe not_. But certainly, it would be if he left it any longer. This final thought begins in the far corner of Kurt’s bedroom and ends outside Warren’s. He glances down—_yes! _There is a faint golden glow from beneath the door – Warren is still awake. Nonetheless, Kurt’s knock is gentle and demure, rapping his knuckles lightly across the dark stained wood. For a beat or two, the world stutters in its rotation, hitching with Kurt’s breath, and lurching back into motion when the bedroom door creaks open.

Warren says nothing when Kurt enters his bedroom. No words follow when Kurt paces across his carpet. There is no comment as Kurt perches himself on the edge of his unmade bed. The silence is not by choice, and quite on the contrary, his insides are all crying out in perfect, dizzying harmony, and yet all he can do is sit down beside Kurt, a wary two feet between them on the bed. He is almost taken aback when Kurt finally breaks the silence, suddenly reminded that one of them was supposed to have spoken by now.  
“I didn’t like how our conversation ended,” Kurt justifies.  
“I’m sorry if I said something to—”  
“No, no, it wasn’t you. Of course not. I just wish I hadn’t… brought things down. With what I said.”  
“You were just telling the truth.”  
“_Ich glaube_. Either way, I hope it didn’t stir up anything painful for you. I promise you, that was the last thing I wanted.”  
Warren shrugs, unsure of where to put his hands. Had Kurt just shifted closer to him?

4:42am  
There is an arm’s length between the two men. Warren swallows for the fourth time in two minutes, though his mouth remains dry.  
“It feels like only yesterday I was trying to be okay with going to the grocery story to get milk. Some days, I still have to talk myself up to it.”  
A stray thought breaks the surface in Warren’s mind, an admiration for the way the dim lamp illuminates half of Kurt’s face while throwing the other half into deep shadow, carving out perfect little curves and shapes along his cheek, jaw and nose.  
“Me, too,” he says, more dreamily than he had intended.  
“And now that I’m starting to be okay with that, it’s like… like there were all of these other things hiding underneath that, these other things to try and think about and be okay with. Different, complicated things.” Warren’s heart aches as Kurt continues to reach into his chest and pull his own words out from within him. For a single instant, the edge of the worn-out double bed becomes a low stone wall concealed in willow branches.

4:49am  
Warren keeps as still as possible, afraid to move a single muscle lest that be the one that ends this dream and brings reality raining down on this beautiful impossibility. Kurt has moved once more, settling so close that their legs press together, sending bolts of lightning up Warren’s spine and through his entire body. Entranced by the words of the man beside him, he can do nothing but watch dumbly, lips parted, eyes glazed, heart beating in leaps and bounds in his throat. Each new thought Kurt brings to light is another match taken to his insides, and he would gladly burn alive if it meant he could sit and share this man’s warmth and drink in his words forever. And yet, Kurt slows, voice softening and petering out into silence. He is tantalisingly close, unfairly close, and the clarity of the silence is what finally lifts the veil and allows Warren to see the truth the has been burying all night. He tastes the burn of rum in his throat, feels the swell of the crowd around him. He shrinks at the judgement of the man driving his cab, hears the breath leave him as he changes his course to sit with Kurt in the living room. He gazes before him, and in the wrinkled brow, twitching lip, and honest, searching eyes, he finds a perfect mirror of himself. Kurt has leaned in, brought the two reflections within inches of each other.

4:51am  
Kurt’s eyes dip away from Warren’s. He swallows audibly.  
“Can—can I—”  
Warren does not wait for the end of the question, and all at once closes the distance between them. Their lips meet with neither grace or decorum, though that does nothing to staunch the flood that sweeps through both as they melt into the embrace. Kurt tastes of tea and feels like every warmth he’s ever craved, like a thick, woollen blanket and refuge from a storm. He is at once soothed and frenzied, and it appears as though Kurt is the same, as neither takes longer than a fraction of a second to surface for air before diving back into the other. Presently, Warren begins to expect the euphoria to end, for fear to set in and sap all this perfection away to leave him terrified and alone. The anticipation of this feeling is almost enough to set it in motion, but when he feels a firm, tender hand at the back of his head, and another snaking its way into his own, lacing three fingers snugly between his five, his nerves fade. The tide ebbs, kept easily at bay by the gentle magic they weave in the soft movements of lips and hands and the delicate fluttering of eyelids. And, both boys left at long last without a voice in their heads telling them to second guess themselves or each other, the silence is heavenly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! It's 3am and I'm listening to the same three love songs on repeat to get that aesthetic down. Please enjoy the rest of this chapter, longer than the first part, so hopefully you'll enjoy. Less sad than the first part, too! Yay!  
As always, any and all feedback is hugely, massively appreciated. Thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Hope you enjoyed this, as I enjoyed writing it. I know it's not all that polished, but I thought it was a fun idea and wanted to get it out there before I lost interest in it. Please let me know what you think of this and whether you're interested in seeing these two in more different historical settings. Feel free to make suggestions if you have them!  
Thanks, and hope you have a great day!
> 
> Fun fact: I literally couldn't help listening to 'For the Dancing and the Dreaming' from HTTYD2 like 5 times in a row while writing this.


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